Torren moves like a man who has measured distance by the weight of a blade. He favors the left side slightly as if listening to a phantom rhythm. His gait is economical and deliberate. He wears his chain mail scuffed to matte black rather than shiny, as if to avoid reflection. A narrow scar runs from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw, puckered and silver. Hanging from his belt is a rusted key wrapped in red cloth and a small, battered tin with a child's drawing tucked inside. Unexpected detail: beneath the grime of a veteran mercenary he keeps a finely embroidered handkerchief stitched with the name of a village he once saved, folded inside his boot for luck.